Page 28 of The Stone Witch of Florence

TWENTY-SEVEN

SANTA MARIA NOVELLA

Afternoon, July 8th of 1348, City of Florence

A fter Ginevra and the becchino rattled away, Lucia walked toward the complex of Santa Reparata and the Baptistry of San Giovanni. There she would fulfill her promise to Ginevra by (briefly) examining the altars of San Zenobio and San Filippo. Afterward, she would go to her own favorite saint, San Tommaso D’Aquino, whose blessed finger was kept in the church of Santa Maria Novella.

Picking the correct personal saint said much about a person, and Lucia was very proud that she had developed a special relationship with the exotic, foreign Tommaso before any of her acquaintances even heard of him (he had only just been canonized a few decades ago). When the wealthy Strozzi family acquired his finger relic and built a chapel for it in Santa Maria Novella, Lucia thought smugly how it had been she that first mentioned San Tommaso to Jacobo Strozzi at a party. So, although the chapel had not been built with her funds, nor according to her design, she felt ownership of the completed structure and took pride in how it drew pilgrims to Florence. In fact, the finger was so popular it was made part of a new pilgrimage route, “The Divine Nine,” a compact walk featuring the most celebrated relics in the city center.

Free from the pain and terror of pestilence, Lucia couldn’t help but be in a good mood at the thought of visiting Tommaso, and the emptiness of the city did not scare her. It was not long before she arrived at the tangled scaffolding that enclosed Santa Reparata. The dead man Ginevra mentioned was still there, and she hurried quickly past him, hoping he would not drip on her.

Once through the scaffolding, she stepped carefully over torn-up earth, stone blocks, and abandoned masons’ tools to reach the intact facade of the church. Reparata had been enveloped in this confusing jumble of construction since before Lucia was born. No longer a grand enough symbol for the city, the Signoria had broken ground on a new cathedral so large that now, a half century after the project began, only the lower portions of this vast structure had been erected.

The exterior chaos spilled inside the poor old building, and instead of a space of sacred geometry, the interior of Reparata felt cluttered and sad. The scaffolds blocked the sunlight that once glowed through stained glass, and broken tiles made it treacherous to walk. Even the faces carved into marble tombstones set in the floor were worn beyond recognition from centuries of feet stepping all over them. Lucia walked down the dusty aisle toward the apse, where a gilded mosaic of Jesus and his flock, now nearly obscured with soot and evaporated beeswax, decorated the concave ceiling above the altar. This golden Christ was very old-fashioned now, a relic of Byzantine taste, and would be broken apart when it was time to lay the floors of the new cathedral. Even so, Lucia knelt before him to pray for guidance.

Lord Christ, is it correct for a woman to attempt to solve such a large problem as the missing relics of Florence? Ginevra had saved her life, and so she was indebted to her. This she had no problem comprehending. And if she had asked any other favor of her, she would not feel hesitant, but this—to become involved with thieves, with sorcery. It sounds exciting, but is it allowed?

Um, Amen , she said, standing up, not really sure if she had been praying or just talking to herself. Lucia walked into the columned alcove underneath the main altar, to where Zenobio’s shrine was located. She knelt down and peered through the iron grate on the front of it. There was the emptied head reliquary, staring back at her stern as ever. She thought of all the places a thief could hide a saint’s skull and grew overwhelmed.

Standing back up, Lucia noticed her dress was covered with a reddish dust that stained her garment when she tried to brush it off. She became frustrated with her task, with dirty old Reparata. Her whole life, people had removed whatever obstacle they could for her comfort, including the making of all but the most trivial of decisions. Now she was wandering by herself through the unknown and she did not like it.

She left Santa Reparata and crossed the piazza to the Baptistry. Gilt faces glared at her from the twenty-eight quatrefoil panels set into its massive bronze doors. She pushed, but they did not budge. Here is one building still properly tended, at least. If the Baptistry was kept locked up, how did the thief get inside to take San Filippo’s arm? For that matter, how did he get to Zenobio? The church was open, but the altar itself was kept locked. Lucia suddenly realized she was alone in a place that should be crowded. Just her and the faces on the doors and that dead man on the scaffold. She hurried away toward Santa Maria Novella.

What a fruitless afternoon! Lucia knew she wouldn’t be a helpful assistant. She would explain to Ginevra that evening—she would have to understand. Lucia just wasn’t as clever as her new friend, wasn’t cut out to investigate mysterious crimes.

At Santa Maria Novella, Lucia looked around for a Dominican brother so she could purchase a candle for her San Tommaso, but there was nobody. At least that she could see. The church was massive, and the far corners disappeared into darkness. Never mind. She was sure San Tommaso would understand. She would find a candle from her home to bring him later.

The chapel that housed his relic was in the western transept. Often a gilded iron gate kept all the public out, and the finger could only be admired from afar, but today Lucia saw it was open. She took this as a good sign, and went inside and knelt before the rock crystal goblet containing his relic. But as she directed her adoring gaze toward the object, her eyes focused not on the familiar, withered bit of flesh but a small bottle filled with lavender liquid—it could not be! San Tommaso would not have left Florence—left her —in her time of need! Somebody took him. Lucia felt violated, as if she personally had been robbed. Never mind her misgivings—she could not let whoever did this get away with it. She knelt again. Blessed Tommaso. Don’t even worry. I will help Ginevra find your finger . And then I will bring you a candle. Amen. She removed the glass bottle from the reliquary and put it in the purse (embroidered with a scene of Tommaso levitating in prayer) that hung from her belt. She left the Strozzi chapel, shutting the gate behind her, and walked quickly toward the exit, across the empty narthex at the heart of the great sanctuary. A ghostly figure crossed in front of her, out from the shadows of the ambulatory. She stifled a gasp and crouched down, though there was nothing to hide behind. But the ghost paid her no mind and went on gliding through the gloom in its long crimson gown until—Lucia recognized the figure. It was not a ghost, but a friend, the same friend who many weeks ago had invited her to come away to the country.

“Pampinea?” called Lucia. The figure let out its own small cry of fright.

“Pampinea,” Lucia called again, “it’s me!”

“Oh! Oh, my goodness, Lucia Tornaparte, is that you?? Alive? I heard you were dead.”

“Ha! I thought you a ghost as well.” She crossed toward her friend, but as she did, Pampinea took steps backward and the space between them did not grow smaller.

“Praise be to the saints,” said Pampinea. “And how is your lord and husband?”

“I know not. He thought it best to go to the country. I remain alone.”

“I don’t know why you should choose to stay. Isn’t it true that your parish is all dead? That your Santa Trinita is robbed of its relic?” As she spoke, Pampinea took a few more steps back.

Lucia halted her advance. “How did you know it was missing?”

“Somebody shouted it from the ringhiera days ago. Is it not true?”

“It...is true the shoulder of San Giovanni is missing.” Lucia was stunned. How could it be common knowledge when she and Ginevra had just discovered the theft hours ago?

Pampinea took another step back.

“Wait, why are you here?” asked Lucia. “When last we spoke, you were about to leave.”

“The thing has not yet come to pass. It’s not easy to organize a party so large, and we heard that the roads were full and one must be exposed to all manner of people in order to travel...as I suppose is the same to go to church.”

A new voice called out from the entrance.

“Pampinea, is that you over there? Sorry I’m late—Lucia?!” said the newcomer as she approached. “What are you doing here? I thought you were dead!”

“Well, as you can see, I am not,” she said, doing her best to sound cheerful. “Hello, Fiammetta.”

“Hello, I suppose. Ah, and look, there is my cousin Filomena entering now.”

“Hello, dear ladies,” called Filomena as she hurried toward them and then stopped short. “Oh, Lucia! Why are you here? Isn’t Santa Trinita a dead parish? Do you not care for us that you come here and expose us?”

That morning Lucia had been excited to become a part of the world again. Now she realized the world did not return the sentiment. “I am not sick, but quite well, and this is the first time in many weeks I have left my house. Is it not natural that the first place I came was to a church to pray?” She meant to keep an even tone, but Lucia’s voice was loud now, defensive, echoing throughout the sanctuary. Several other women, who had been praying in their own dark corners of the cavernous space, came forward as they heard the voices.

“See, I was not the only one who still comes to pray! Surely, mine is not the only parish affected by pestilence.”

“No, but it is one of the worst. Everyone knows that where relics are taken, the pestilence cannot be held back,” said Fiammetta.

But they must not know about San Tommaso yet , thought Lucia, or they would not dare to meet here. This theft is fresh.

The newcomers approached and Lucia recognized all of them. “Hello, Emilia, Lauretta, Neifile, Elissa... Elissa! Oh, how are you—how are you all here together? At the exact same time?” (Lucia had barely caught herself from offering condolences—for Elissa was none other than the widow of Ludovico Acciaiuoli. She did not look like one bereaved.)

“We’re not here together. It’s just a coincidence,” said Pampinea, speaking over Elissa. She looked around at the group of women with a pointed stare. Several looked down at their feet.

Now Lucia understood. It was their whole brigade who planned to leave to the country, the group Lucia had once been a part of herself. They were here to finally organize their trip, and nobody had even bothered to check and see if she still might join them. Worse yet, now that they saw she was alive, nobody wanted to let her know she was not too late. First, her husband, and now her friends did not want her. She had only Ginevra, who might have found a house already empty to stay in but instead heard her cries and rescued her. Very well. If these false friends would not give her an invitation, perhaps they could give her information.

“Well,” Lucia said, putting on her most genteel smile. “What a very pleasant coincidence. What are the chances?”

“It’s not so strange,” said Elissa, eager now to assist Pampinea. “Everything is closed besides churches. There is not one market open, nor any piazza not fouled by corpses. My home is so dull and silent that prayer sounded like an exciting change of pace.”

“You must have been bored, Elissa,” said Fiammetta, “to have taken to praying.”

“You know I have been bored for years,” said the widow.

“What do you mean?” asked Lucia.

“She means,” said Fiammetta, “that her dear late husband spent his nights pining for his lost amante instead of visiting her chamber—”

Lucia subconsciously touched the brooch pinned to her shoulder. Not my wife/But my life.

“Fiammetta, don’t be unpleasant,” said Pampinea. She turned to Lucia: “Please, I can hear in your voice you are hurt, but why should we not believe you are dead, when all we hear all day is this friend or that friend is dead.” But still she did not mention the trip.

The rest of the group nodded their agreement and murmured apologies.

Lucia wondered if she’d have done any different if one of them had stopped leaving their home. Even still, she was not ready to forgive them, and focused on her small revenge of manipulating the conversation. It wouldn’t be hard. This was a group that thrived in gossip.

“Elissa, you are right. There is nothing to do except go into churches. In fact, this is the third one I have visited today.”

“Really? Whatever for?”

“Well, since my own parish was robbed, I wanted to see the altars of San Filippo and Zenobio as well. Who could have done such a thing?” she said conspiratorially.

Pampinea shrugged. “Incompetent priests leave doors unlocked and thieves steal treasures. That is why I keep my own relics! You never know when you need a saint devoted just to you.” She pulled out a tiny reliquary pouch on a string and kissed it. “Lucia, do you still have the San Sebastiano I gave you? Is that what has kept you well?”

“Oh...mm...yes,” said Lucia, working hard to control a sarcastic snort. “I keep it by my bed and pray to it every night! I am sure it has kept me in health.” Actually, the cheap necklace gave off a very strong odor, and she had put it in the bottom of a chest long ago. Once she found San Tommaso, she would have to ask forgiveness for lying in his church. She hoped he would understand, considering the circumstances.

Pampinea relaxed a bit. “Lucia, everybody knows all about the missing relics, one after the other for weeks, it’s all we hear. It’s why we finally decided to lea—haven’t you any better gossip, I mean?”

Had she. Lucia thought about the missing saint finger and the bottle in her purse. About the convicted heretic now living in her home, who cured the plague with magic jewels and had a big scar on her nose and who was the amante of Elissa’s husband. But all of this must be kept secret. For now, at least. She had promised.

“Well, I have been shut up that whole time, and since I missed the processions, I admit I was curious. Santa Reparata is unlocked, though you are right everyone in the parish must be dead. I was the only person in the whole place, I swear it.”

The group leaned in, forgetting their fear of contagion in their hunger for a bit of conversation.

“And you went in all by yourself? Is that dead stonemason still up there? What did you find?”

“Nothing, I found nothing. Though I crouched down on the dirty floor to look—the silver head is there the same as before except empty, I suppose. And the Baptistry is locked so I couldn’t even see where the Filippo Arm is stored. Do you know how to get into the Baptistry when nobody is being baptized?”

They all shook their heads.

“Lucia, why are you doing all this? Do you think you can catch the thief?” Pampinea said incredulously.

“Of course not.” (Another lie she’d have to tell San Tommaso about.) “I just find it fascinating. Somebody must know. And the fact that relics were stolen from the church makes it all the more sordid.”

“Lucia,” said Pampinea, “this is hardly the most sordid crime happening.”

The group leaned in again.

“Oh?”

“I mean, it’s not a thing to discuss in church...”

With only the slightest bit of encouragement, Pampinea crossed herself and continued:

“I suppose I’ll just have to go to confession later. Well: I have heard that many of our fellow citizens are determined to make a good time of what time is left. They do this by entering properties left untended and enjoying their goods. It’s a very popular pastime, for a certain type.”

“How do you know this?”

Pampinea shrugged. “I have a cousin who’s a bit of a rogue. He’s in love with me, so he tells me whatever I ask him. You know, it is probably these same shameful people stealing the relics. Some say they are angry at God for not helping us, so they mock Him.”

All the ladies crossed themselves.

“But...how would they find each other?” asked Lucia.

“It’s easy, because like attracts like. The same as in any time, you can find those vile folks drinking themselves into a stupor at the trattoria Alle Panche . ”

Alle Panche. Even Lucia knew of that infamous place. “I thought all the drinking houses—all businesses—are closed now. As Elissa said.”

“It is true during the daytime, but these thieves need a place to spend what they’ve stolen, so after dark, the tavern breaks curfew. I mean, who is there to stop them? They run about by torchlight like devils and go to the tavern and drink cheap wine from stolen silver. They show off what they have robbed and trade it amongst themselves. But it is not just common criminals there. Some of our own class—and even the clergy—go, determined to indulge in as many sinful activities as possible. They have no scruples of eating, drinking, and fornicating with whomever they choose. Once they find their band at Alle Panche, they make their wicked plans. Every night, they take over the houses of those who fled, and empty all their provisions and wear their clothes.”

Lucia was glad she had locked the door to her house when she left. Silence filled the sanctuary after Pampinea’s story. She realized the women were still waiting for her to leave, so they could get on with their planning. Fine, then. She was tired of pretending not to notice.

“I suppose I’ll go home, then, before it is too late. The afternoon shadows grow long, and as you said, there are nasty people about.”

“Good idea,” agreed Pampinea. “Well, goodbye, then.”

Lucia turned and went toward the doorway, willing herself not to cry about the missing Tommaso, about being uninvited to their holiday.

“Wait!” called Pampinea as she neared the door. Lucia turned around, hopefully. “Lucia, I know I made it sound terribly exciting, and you seem almost as bored as Elissa, but don’t get any ideas about going to Alle Panche—it really is too much for one of your delicate sensibilities.”

Lucia smiled graciously, and walked out of the church into the dusty, deserted city. Never mind them. Soon she would become a woman so interesting nobody would dare leave her behind. She clutched the mysterious bottle in her purse, certain of one thing: she must visit the trattoria Alle Panche as soon as possible.